Servant in his House
by Hawk Marion Greenleaf
Summary: This is my story as a fighter for King Oropher of Mirkwood during the battle of the Last Alliance.
1. Chapter 1

It is a grey day. Dark clouds hang low and threatening, their edges grimy with soot and ash where their feet brush the cone of the volcano. The mountain stands alone above a barren and broken plain, its stony crown rises many thousands feet above the earth. Two armies are assembled at the feet of the mountain, called Mt. Doom. One force holds the high ground, spread across the earth like a black blight. The other is before the mountain, drawn up around three hummocks. On the first breaks the banner of Elendil the Tall, the king from the western lands. He and his folk came from the sea and established the mighty realm of Gondor. Tall they are, strong and wise in arts now long forgotten. His two sons, Isildur and Anarion, stand beside him. On the second of the hills unfurls the banner of the elven king Oropher Greenleaf. His governs the magnificent forest Greenwood the Great, also called Mirkwood. Both men and women are fair to look upon. In their faces in age incalculable, for they are immortal, the eldest children of Illuvatar. Often they sing and dance in their forest home, but now no song is heard; their features are grim. At Oropher's right hand is his son Thranduil. He does not love to fight but he does now because if this army cannot stop the advance of the evil lord Sauron, his forces will wash over all the free lands of the west like a black tide and sweep them away. Sauron hates the elves and any that he finds will die. So if their cause is doomed, the elves would rather choose death in battle than lingering life in the torture chambers of Sauron's fortress, Barad Dur. So far the alliance of elves and men has been successful. About a week ago they won a decisive battle on the plain Dagorlad before the gate of Sauron's black land. Now they have driven close to Sauron's stronghold, and if they can take it, his power will be shattered, or so they believe. On the last hill billows the banner of Gil-galad the high kind of the elves. He has no son. His trusted captain, Elrond, stands by his side.

"What do they wait for?" asks Eldril Greenleaf, "A week ago they seemed eager to attack us." His green eyes seek out the like colored ones of his wife, Hawk. "It worries me." Hawk meets his gaze and grimaces slightly then turns her farsighted eyes back to the enemy. They stand on the hill of Oropher's banner.

"I know what you mean." She smiles wryly. "I guess it is too much to hope we have scared them?" Eldril half smiles in return, at the running joke between them then replies with the expected answer, "Nah, they couldn't be afraid of us. They never learn." He to turns his eyes back to the enemy. Out of the corner of her eye Hawk studies Eldril, not that she needs to, they have been married over three hundred years. The story of their romances is no longer gossiped about, thought for a time it was on everyone's lips. Hawk, of noble birth, joined the Scouts of Oropher's army. She rose in the ranks because of her skill and so caught Thranduil's eye. However, she was also beautiful in the eyes of another man, Eldril. He is a minor relative of the elf king. He had no chance at government power, so also joined the Scouts. He was handsome in Hawk's eyes. She married for love, and not for money. They now jointly lead the Scouts. They oversee surveying of roads, enemy movement, and carry messages in peace time. They and their command are grouped around Oropher's standard. They are archers and will shoot over the heads of their comrades when the enemy charges within range. Hawk's eye flicks over the battle lines on the hill in front of Gil-galad's standard. Her son Durmon commands that division. She can almost see the single jaunty hawk's feather he always wears in his helmet, in remembrance of her name. With a slight pang she remembers her other son Wing who was injured in the battle of Dagorlad. He is resting with the rest of wounded in the camp several miles behind the battle lines. Her reverie is shattered by a braying horn blast. There is a guttural roar from the orcs, and the front line charge forward.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Eldril and Hawk turns to face the group of arches behind them. Eldril spoke. "Listen up. We don't have enough arrows for every enemy down there." He jerks a thumb at the advancing orcs, which swarm over the ground like carpenter ant over road kill. "So, conserve your ammunition. Pick your targets and make sure it's a kill shot."

Hawk adds her two cents, directing he words at their lieutenant, "And Herald, do make sure you shoot over our friends, not through them." Herald blushes. This comment references an incident several years ago, in which he shot Hawk tried to shoot to close to her grazing the side of her head and taking off the tip of her ear.

"Draw!" shouts Eldril. "Noch…Aim…Fire!" With a concerted twang the arrows are released. They are in the air like a black cloud. The fall directly before the battle lines giving the hand to hand fighters a momentary reprieve. "Reload…Aim…Fire!" Another black cloud slices through the air. This sequence repeats itself many times as the hours pass.

The Scouts have fired volley after volley into the ranks of orcs, but there seems no end to them. The ground is littered with the fallen. The black blood of goblin mingles in death with the blood of men and elves. The enemy has not breached the line before Eldril and his company, but it is weakening. The orcs retreat for a moment. Then there is a roar of challenge from behind their line. Trolls are coming from the back of their line. Huge, grey skinned and welding great maces and clubs. The ors draw aside. Three trolls are coming against their hill. "Aim for the trolls!" shouts Hawk. The volley of arrows that follows only seems to enrage the targets. The disgusting creatures lead the charge. As they draw nearer Hawk catches a whiff of their foul reek. They have reached the line. The elves retreat before the onslaught. The line is wavering. It is broken! Time seems to slow down around Hawk, Eldril by her side; the trolls rushing upon her. She slings her bow on her back and draws her sword, leaping aside, and then mounting its back. Hawk stabs downward slicing through flesh and bone lifting the troll's head from its shoulders. It caves to the ground. There is a cry from her right. Herald! He drew his sword and attempted to do as Hawk had done, but he had tried to dodge between two trolls. Hawk was lucky she had faced one of the trolls on the outside so had a clear place to jump to. Herald was thrown several feet. The other Scouts draw sword and form a line to resist the charge. They hold. The line before them moves together again. The trolls are slain. Hawk runs to the side of her fallen husband. He is lying on the rock he was thrown on. One arm is twisted beneath him. Miraculously, he is still breathing. Hawk cradles his head in her arms.

"I guess I made a mistake. You always did say I was slow." Herald cracks a pain filled smile.

"Don't you dare die on me," said Hawk vehemently, "We'll see you through this."

"Yes, ma'am. No dying. Got it." Eldril is calling for a medic. Hawk looks up and they are running toward her with a stretcher. They lay it down and lift Herald as gently as they can onto it. He cries out in pain. Hawk knows he must be hurt on the inside from the troll's blow. The medics carry him back toward some make shift tents that are serving as hospital. Hawk stands up. Eldril looks her over.

"You alright?"

"Yes," replies Hawk, more curtly than she intended. "I can fight."

From now on, the Scouts begin fighting hand to hand. Hawk takes half of them, fifteen, and Eldril takes the other. The trolls seem to be the enemy's last wild card. The allies are now moving forward. Slowing, a foot at a time the shield wall presses the enemy back. In their turn, the creatures of Mordor are wavering and retreating. Then in a moment their ranks have broken like water. The orcs run in fear before the terrible glory of the elven warriors. Abruptly, a horn blast cuts through the din of battle. It seems to weave a spell of stillness for a moment. From nowhere a huge figure appears in the midst of the orc host. Armored from head to toe in black he wields a heavy mace and a gold ring is on his finger. It is Sauron come to fight his own battles. He advances and the front ranks press back against their comrades. Eldril is close to the figure almost in the front ranks. Hawk is off to his right. Suddenly, Sauron lashes out. His mace sends men flying. On the backswing it catches Eldril in the chest and throws him a distance. A wild cry is torn from her throat. She tries to push through the tightly packed ranks, but they are frozen, unyielding in their terror. The front ranks are dissolving; scrabbling to escape the reach if the terrible black mace. Amid the spreading panic, there is a valiant cry, "To me soldiers of Gondor. Rally to the white tree!" Hawk turn toward the shout. Elendil, with his sons and guards about him, is charging toward the black armored figure. The ranks part to let the king pass, then fall in behind him. The army recedes like the ocean before a wave rushes in, then breaks upon the enemy. The bright flame of Narsil, Elendil's sword, sparkles in a deadly arc as it rises to block Sauron's mace. A roar rises in the throats of men and elves as the enemy once again flees before them. Amid the battle raging all around them, the king of men fight the lord of shadows. The enemy is being driven back. Hawk is part of the desperate charge. She is close to the dueling pair. Out of the corner of her eye, Hawk catches the deft movements of a swordsman to her right. With an inward start she recognizes Isildur, elder son of the king. Hawk is unscathed. She cuts through her enemies. Suddenly, her foot turns on a rock twisting her ankle and sending her sprawling. The orc blade swings down toward her throat, when with a clang it is halted. Isildur stands above her. With his right hand he wields a sword. Giving a small grunt of exertion, he allows the orc scimitar to slide down his blade until it is caught on the crosspiece. Then in one fluid motion he pivots on his right foot, bringing his left hand up and plunging the dagger it holds into the orc's heart. The orc collapses in a heap. The whole exchange lasts less than three seconds. Hawk scrambles to her feet. Her right ankle complains, but is not serious. The tide of battle washes around them. Hawk bows slightly.

"Thank you," said Hawk. "You saved my life. I will not forget it." Isildur squats and cleans his dagger in the dead orc's jerkin. He glances up.

"Thanks, but don't worry about it. It's just war." He pauses for a moment then continues, "Don't get me wrong, I understand elves have long memories for favors, but I won't hold anyone to something like this." The corners of Hawk's mouth curl upward, almost into a smile.

"Very well then, I ask to serve in your house until I can return the favor." Isildur rises and bows.

"I am honored by such an offer. I would be blessed to have one of the fair folk in my house. Let us talk later, the battle continues." And it does, until victory seems at hand.

Abruptly, Sauron feints. Narsil is thrown up to stop the pretended blow. Too late Elendil realizes the ploy. The mace finds its mark and the king of Gondor is flung against a protrusion of rock. Isildur leaps to his side. He finds his father dead. With an inarticulate cry, he reaches out his hand to take up his father's sword. Sauron stamps down upon the blade shattering it into many glittering shards. Sauron reaches down to strike the prince with his hand. With a last effort Isildur swings the hilt shard of Narsil and cuts off Sauron's middle finger; severing the ring of power from its master. The finger through the Ring fall to the mould. The dark armor glows with heat and then disintegrates in a shockwave, which sweeps out from the collapsing figure. Sauron the enemy of the free peoples has been defeated, but at great cost. Isildur picks up the Ring from where it fell among the cinders of Sauron's finger. On it are inscribed elvish characters. Already, though, the letters fade as the Ring cools. "This I will have as weregild for my father, and my brother," intoned Isildur. Those standing near, wearily leaning on their swords, do not object.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Hawk does not see that fateful moment in the history of Middle Earth. Limping through the battlefield she has found the body of her husband. She kneels by his side. His armor was strong, but it is crushed and rent from the force of Sauron's blow. Hawk weeps. "Farewell…Farewell my dear friend." Hawk whispers the words. Slowly, she reaches out and closes his eyes. "I hoped that someday the war would be over, and we could walk together—" here her voice breaks, "— in the western lands, but it is not to be." Hawk bows her head. Later she could not have told how long she knelt there, lost in a haze of her grief. She hears a step behind her but does not turn.

A questioning voice asks, "Lieutenant?" With an effort, Hawk brings herself back to reality and looks at the speaker. He is a young elf. He starts perceptibly when he sees her face. It is quite a sight, streaked with grime and tears, blood oozes from a gash near her hairline. The elf recovers. "Lieutenant Greenleaf?" Hawk nods numbly. "I was sent to find you, and to establish whether or not you and your command survived the battle." Hawk registers the words, but only after a long moment. They seem to have been spoken far away. When she understands it seems another part of her mind takes over. She blinks then looks around.

When she tries to speak, her voice won't work. She clears her throat and tries again. "I...ahem…I don't know. My officer was severely injured, and Lieutenant Greenleaf was killed. As for the rest of my command, I cannot say." At this the elf frowns.

"You said you were Lieutenant Greenleaf." Hawk shakes her head slightly to clear it. Her thoughts are thick and fuzzy. "No…no that's not what I meant. I'm also Lieutenant Greenleaf." The elf's face is as blank as a hospital wall. "I'm the co-leader of the Scouts." A ray of light dawns.

"O, yes, right, I understand." He shuffles his feet in the dirt, looking uncomfortable and unsure of what to do.

"Look, I'll find out the casualties for my unit, and then I will tell you. Where will you be?" Eager to seize an opportunity, the elf nodes vigorously.

"I'm one of King Gil-galad's couriers I will be at his command tent." His face falls a little. "Unless of course I'm somewhere else running errands."

"That certainly narrows the field of search." The elf doesn't meet her gaze. Hawk puts a hand on his shoulder and cracks and chuckles. "Don't worry about it. When I know I'll just wait around at the command tent for a while. Maybe I'll just tell Gil-galad myself." He meets her gaze and draws a deep breath. His eyes are glassy but he manages to keep a steady voice.

"I don't think you'll be able to do that. King Gilgalad is dead." Hawk's mind reels with shock.

"Losses are indeed heavy." The elf struggles with his tears. Hawk notices. "We must weep later. Right now there are wounded who must be found, dead that must be buried and orcs that must be hunted." The elf nodes, and with a bow, hurries off across the torn and bloody field. She scans the remnants of the positions on the hills. Gil-galad dead. It seems strange to her that someone of such legendary skill could come to something as mundane as death. He must have fallen by his standard, mentally surmises Hawk. Suddenly the thought freezes in her mind; it turns her blood to water. Horror twists and coils in her gut like a serpent. Durmon! He commanded the troops before the king's hill. If the king fell… but no, the thought is too horrible into put into words. Now she is running. She didn't even recall moving. She may be speeding toward the dead body of her older son.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Hawk is panting by the time she reaches the entrenchments of Gil-galad's forces. Her ankle throbs. Men move through the dead, searching for comrades, tending to wounded, counting the dead. Althorn, one of Durmon's lieutenants, stands where Gil-galad's standard was planted, drawing up a casualty list for his division.

"Althorn!" Hawk's voice is hoarse as she calls to him. He glances up as she hurries toward him. He does a double-take and comes to meet her.

"Hawk are you well? What's happened?"

"I came to ask you ask much," replies Hawk. "Where is Durmon?" She glances wildly about.

"Last I knew he was bearing away the body of King Gil-galad." Hawk sags with relief.

"Then he's not dead?"

"No," answers Althorn puzzled. "What made you think so?" Hawk almost babbles with gladness.

"Well, I thought when I heard that Gil-galad was dead that maybe Durmon had been killed as well because he is so loyal." Althorn's face is sober.

"Aye, that he would have. He got knocked on the head by an ill meaning orc. Other than a lump, he's fine." He looks down then continues, " I don't think Gil-galad would have been killed had he not led the charge. The line was breaking up and he rallied the troops." They are silent for a moment, then Hawk shrugs.

"I am glad Durmon is well. Tell him to come over to my troop when he gets a chance. I need to talk to him. In fact, that's where I need to go right now, except I don't really know what happened to them." Althorn nods.

"I hope your men are safe, wherever they are."

With a wry smile Hawk replies, "Thank you, I do to."


	5. Chapter 5

"…Hardin was wounded in the leg, and Seralond was shot in the shoulder." Hawk glances as Bergil, her second lieutenant, as he finishes the count of wounded and dead.

"Thank you, Bergil, no one likes to do that. Any news about Harold?"

Bergil sighs and shakes his head, "No. I've been looking for him but can't find where the medics took him. It will be a long time before everyone can be identified." Birgil greatly admires Harold. They met on the same mission that Hawk met Eldril, and have been fast friends ever since. Harold has also been his superior. Hawk nodes.

"Well, that's it I guess. Now, unless you want to help me report the casualties, to Commandant Windbag, you had better round up what men are fit and pitch something that can be called a camp." Bergil salutes and hurries away. With a sigh, Hawk picks her way across the battlefield to the command tent of the king of Mirkwood. All the officers who work with forms, bills, lists, or any other form of paper, have office in some area surrounding the command tent. She reports to Commandant Coralas, who has been aptly dubbed Windbag by the officers who know him. Hawk is finally able to bow out gracefully, after hearing a lengthy recitation of stories by the loquacious elf. With that duty done, Hawk heads toward the portion of camp where she knows her unit will pitch their tents. She knows her way even though the camp has no signposts, because each unit has an assigned position in relation to its neighbors. Of course, though useful, this system does have drawbacks. There have been many vociferous complaints when the assigned territory was inhospitable, like gravel or, most notably in Hawk's memory, thistles. Since the positions are rarely changed, that had been a prickly night.

There are depressingly few Scouts setting up camp; only seventeen can help, and all work with varying degrees of success. Hawk knew before the battle that the mortality would be more with the Scouts that with any other group. They were trained to be spies, not soldiers. When the orders had come in, both Eldril and Hawk had tried to have them changed. A sick feeling of guilt twists in her gut. I caused this, she thinks. Eldril had known it was likely to be slaughter. Eldril. At the thought of him, all the grief she felt wells up anew, as sharp and bitter as when she saw him fall. Hawk pauses and leans against a pole of one of the tents that lines militarily straight path. She feels like her knees are about to buckle. Her ankle throbs. With an enormous effort, Hawk pushes away her grief and puts on a brave face for her men. She has no orders for them, so all she does in help them pitch their tents. When the last one is erected, Hawk wearily limps to her tent. Her gear from the supply wagons in there. That means that this will be a fairly permanent camp. The wagon drivers would not have taken the time to leave her things if the camp was to be broken the next day. She doesn't have much; just gear. The few luxuries she enjoys are in Mirkwood in the house Eldril…She does not finish the thought. Hawk lays aside her weapons, spreads out her bed role, and collapses suppressing a sob. She cannot grieve aloud here. If she does, the men in the tents beside her will hear. Tiredly, Hawk unlaces her boots and gingerly pulls injured ankle out of it, grunting softly in pain. Too exhausted even to think of Eldril, Hawk sinks into a fitful sleep, haunted by trolls, orcs and black armored figures.


End file.
